


The Art of Longstanding Deception

by PollyPocalypse



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (Although in this case technically only about 170 or so), (but also plenty of original scenes too), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angst, Aziraphale is good at denial, Canon-Typical Drinking, Character Study, Crowley getting drunk and Doing A Sociology, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Hazily-described offscreen smut, Heaven is a terrible corporate workplace, Internal reflections on canon scenes, M/M, Slow Burn, Stage Magic, Stream of Consciousness, seaside holidays
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28699506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PollyPocalypse/pseuds/PollyPocalypse
Summary: Aziraphale wouldn’t say he didn’t like being in Heaven.Of course he wouldn’t. He was an angel. It was his domain. He wouldn’t say he disliked it at all.He wouldn’t say that sometimes, quite often really, getting out of Heaven felt like shrugging off a too-tight, scratchy jumper. That he always felt just a little more at ease, a little morehimself, when he was away from them all.Aziraphale would never dream of saying any of these things.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks and a virtual bunch of flowers to [apliddell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell) for beta'ing

_****_

_**Bus stop, Tadfield, Present hour** _

_  
_

Aziraphale sits, his fingers laced together, hastily-miracled wine and a now-receding rush of adrenaline making his head feel fuzzy. 

He tries not to think about the fact that the last drink he ever has might well be this rather uninspiring conjured-up Bordeaux swigged unceremoniously out of a paper bag at the bus stop. Miracled food and drink never tastes quite right. There’s always a certain aftertaste of ozone. 

He can feel the ongoing rush that had been buoying him up slowly ebbing away, to be replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. He wants to go _home_. 

“It burned down, remember?”

Crowley’s using his soft voice. The one he uses in particularly _weighty_ moments. Aziraphale remembers him using that same voice to offer him a lift (which perhaps wasn’t, in point of fact, _just_ a lift) several decades ago. He wishes he’d taken Crowley up on it now. 

He doesn’t know how to feel about the soft voice. Perhaps he needs it, right now. But on the other hand, it makes everything all too real. He wishes the two of them could be back to normal; tipsily philosophising in his back room and bickering about each other’s fashion choices. This low-voiced tenderness is simultaneously a comfort and a source of agitation, sitting uneasily inside him like a shape that doesn’t quite fit. 

“You can stay at my place, if you like,” says Crowley. 

“I don’t think my side would like that, very much,” he replies automatically, fully realising the absurdity of the statement before Crowley points it out. He’s completely out of sorts, he really is. 

Angels aren’t supposed to deal with this sort of thing, surely. Any of it. They’re built for things like… heavenly love for god’s creatures. Righteousness. Holy rapture. That kind of thing. All this messy emotional hodgepodge is for _humans_. 

Does he even qualify as an angel, anymore? He thinks about Adam Young, about how he became human incarnate despite (or perhaps in some cases, because of) everyone’s best efforts. And the way that perhaps, again despite both their head offices’ endeavours, the two of them may have undergone something of a similar process. 

He’s glad, really. That surprises him, although perhaps it shouldn’t. Glad they’re not his side any more. Glad he got his corporation back, without any Heavenly intervention. 

The bus pulls up and they take their seats. They don’t speak, but after a while his hand finds its way to Crowley’s and squeezes hard. 

Crowley raises his eyebrows in surprise but only squeezes back, his thumb stroking over Aziraphale’s knuckles. It grounds him, just a little. 

If they get out of this alive, the first thing he’s going to do is book them a table at the Ritz and order the biggest multi-course meal he can find on the menu. Damned (perhaps literally) if he’s going to get his corporation back and not give it due appreciation. 

Crowley’s half asleep by the time they get to his flat, but he becomes more alert once it’s time to go in, forgoing his keys in favour of a quick hand-wave to unlock the door and making a fuss of Aziraphale, taking his jacket for him and plumping the sofa cushions, every inch the nervous host. It’s oddly touching. 

“You ok?” Crowley asks gruffly once they’re both seated on the rather spartan modern sofa. 

“Yes.” Aziraphale swallows. “Well. No.”

“I know.”

They sit together for a long moment, the silence weighing heavily between them. Aziraphale thinks of Heaven, and of what they’re going to think of him now, and wonders if he’s ever going to miss them. 

“They’re going to come after us, aren’t they.” 

  


  
_****_

_**Heaven, 1850** _

_  
_

“All right, everyone.” 

The Archangel Gabriel propped up a stack of papers at the head of the table and looked around at the others with a wide-eyed, slightly too broad smile. “First order of business: it’s come to my attention that _some_ of us continue to be, shall we say, a little too cavalier with the miracles.”

 _Some of us_ was accompanied by a none-too-subtle flick of the gaze in Aziraphale’s direction. To their credit, some of the lower-ranking angels tried to be subtle about following suit and looking at him. Others didn’t bother to try and hide it at all. 

“May I remind _all of you_ that miracles are to be used sparingly. We can’t go using them willy-nilly for every injury to our corporeal body or every human wanting a favour. It just doesn’t look good.”

Aziraphale remained steadfastly silent, despite feeling uncomfortably aware of the eyes on him. Michael had even smirked.

Truth be told, he’d never been entirely clear on why using miracles to excess was such a problem. Oh, admittedly, it might make reports a little untidy, and run the risk of humans learning a bit too much (although a memory wipe would cover that one up, but that incurred more paperwork in the long run.) But surely a little miracle for convenience every once in a while wouldn’t do much harm? 

He had been requested to attend the latest meeting, ostensibly as a supposed compensation for being, as they saw it, marooned on earth to keep the demon Crowley at bay. He was beginning to suspect, however, that for the archangels this had the not-inconsiderable bonus of allowing them to discreetly chide him. 

He had hoped that the minor miracles he’d performed of late - taking care of a nasty sprain he’d incurred in an altercation with a speeding hansom cab and returning a child’s missing dog, to name a couple - had gone unnoticed, but seemingly not. 

The other angels, as far as he could tell, didn’t take a great deal of interest in earthly affairs, despite it being part of the job description. They considered it rather beneath them. Humans and their habits - their feelings and creations and _gross matter_ , were to be derided, treated at best like wayward children who needed to be kept on the straight and narrow. Although on occasion, Gabriel and company were forced to admit, they were capable of coming up with a decent idea. 

Like these meetings, for example. All the rage, all of a sudden. On the very rare occasions Gabriel deigned to read anything written by humans, he gravitated towards books with titles like _How to Succeed in Business Without Trying_ and _The Executive’s Handbook_. It was plain to see the enjoyment written all over his face when he addressed a big white table with phrases like “first order of business” and “causes for concern”. 

The discussion swiftly moved on to Easter and Christmas, and whether these newfangled and indulgent celebratory traditions that humans were implementing were a Cause for Concern. 

“Why, in as little as a hundred years or so, some humans might be getting the whole week off work!” Gabriel threw out his arms, huffing out an incredulous laugh. 

“I’m - I’m not sure -” Aziraphale piped up. 

In a flash, all eyes were on him again; the archangels fixing him with impassive, mildly perturbed looks. 

“Yes?”

“It’s just that I’m not sure I see the harm, really.”

He himself had been observing the humans’ new Yuletide traditions with considerable interest, and personally found them to be rather enjoyable. Particularly the food. And the decor. It was a pleasant sort of atmosphere, he felt. 

“Aziraphale.” Gabriel’s voice was smooth as treacle. “Aziraphale, Aziraphale. You were invited to contribute to this meeting out of the goodness of our hearts. But if you will persist in butting in with these remarks… well, perhaps you’ve been assigned to Earth a little too long. I wouldn’t like to think you were engaging in earthly habits, would you?”

Aziraphale swallowed. “No. No, of course not.”

Gabriel beamed at him, narrowing his eyes. “Good. Now, if we’re permitted to continue… I was about to suggest we assign a few more angels to Earth. A few low-level underlings, perhaps. Sounds like Aziraphale here could use all the manpower he can get, eh? All his work cut out thwarting that demon.” He leaned back in his seat, and grinned toothily at Aziraphale. _What do you have to say to **that** ,_ the smile said. 

Aziraphale winced. “Oh, heavens, that really won’t be necessary.”

“No?” 

“It would be… ah, that is to say, wouldn’t it be better to make a show of strength and fortitude? By- by continuing to only employ the one agent? Why, gosh, if we were to employ a whole horde of angels against a single demon, we’d run the risk of looking weaker than they are, we can’t have that. And, well. Crowley and I - I’ve come to understand his mode of operation. As- as the vigilant officer observes the ways of the thief. I can assure you I have things under control.” 

Gabriel made a noise that might have been a poorly-disguised scoff, but nodded his assent. “Can’t go wasting manpower. In that case, Principality Aziraphale shall keep his post on Earth alone. If he’s absolutely positive he can handle it…?” 

Aziraphale nodded eagerly, wondering when he’d be allowed to take his leave 1.

Aziraphale wouldn’t say he didn’t like being in Heaven. 

Of course he wouldn’t. He was an angel. It was his domain. He wouldn’t say he disliked it at all. 

He wouldn’t say that he didn’t feel entirely like himself there - that would be ludicrous, it was angelic territory, he was an angel, so _quod erat demonstrandum_ , he could not possibly be more himself than when he was in Heaven - he would never say that he felt like someone he didn’t much like, someone ungainly and awkward, who took up too much space and couldn’t quite seem to do anything right. He wouldn’t say he felt required to hold himself in all the time, that he always seemed to be in some sort of trouble. He wouldn’t say it made him feel uncomfortable, like a schoolboy being berated by the headmaster, when the Archangels stood over him. That their snide little remarks about him, about his corporeal form, his silliness and habits of speaking out of turn, the way he was getting too cosy with the humans… he wouldn’t say they bothered him at all. 

And of course, he wouldn’t say he didn’t like _them_. They were his family, for goodness sake. His brethren, at any rate. His associates. Colleagues. 

He wouldn’t say that sometimes, quite often really, getting out of Heaven felt like shrugging off a too-tight, scratchy jumper. That he always felt just a little more at ease, a little more _himself_ , when he was away from them all. 

Aziraphale would never dream of saying any of these things. 

  


  


oOo

  
  


Once he’d been permitted to descend back down from Heaven and return to his shop, he was pulled up short by the alert of a demonic presence that pervaded his senses. It took the form of a vaguely heated, peppery feeling prickling over him, accompanied by the faint sulphurous smell of a freshly-struck match with just a slight undercurrent of singed toast2. Instantly, Aziraphale felt his shoulders drop. He smiled to himself.

“Evening, Angel.” 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale turned to face him. 

Crowley was sprawled in his leisurely fashion over the settee, a bottle of Glen Scotia clutched between his fingers and a wrapped box of chocolates on the end table beside him. 

Crowley hadn’t shown up since that rather precarious incident after the shop’s opening a few decades ago, when Gabriel and Sandalphon had attempted to relocate Aziraphale back to head office. Crowley had had the good sense to make himself scarce for a while after that, and Aziraphale definitely wouldn’t say that he’d experienced an entirely selfish pang of disappointment at being deprived of the chance to see him. Their separation was sensible; it was good and correct. He had to remind himself of that, instead of getting all caught up in his excitement every time Crowley showed up. 

“You really shouldn’t be here.”

“I was just in the area. On the job, you know, holding up the postal service. Broke down a couple of telegraph towers. Pretty dull business, if you ask me, it’s about time the humans came up with some new communication method. Anyway, never mind all that, can’t blame me for taking the chance to drop in and give the local principality a bit of needling. You’re supposed to be thwarting me, aren’t you? Can’t do that if I keep a distance.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Have you been here long?”

“These past twenty minutes, or so. Where’ve you been? Anywhere nice?” Crowley glanced up, and apparently noticed the slight tension in Aziraphale’s features. “You all right?”

Aziraphale swallowed his first instinctive reaction. “Heavenly business.”

Crowley made a face. “Oh, what a delight.”

“There’s no need for that,” Aziraphale countered, trying to quell the tiny spark of glee that welled up in him. 

“You’ve got to admit, it was a good idea, taking some of the work off each other’s hands. Tedious bureaucracy, that’s all it really is. Nobody enjoys it, not even the ones at the top.”

“I think they actually do, rather. And you shouldn’t talk like that. You never know when some of them are going to show up.” He sat down, eyeing the whisky. 

Crowley waggled the bottle. “Fancy a dram? You’ll need it after dealing with that lot.”

Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley wandered off to find some tumblers. 

“And… those?” Aziraphale asked when he returned, eyeing the discarded chocolates. He was trying to be politely obtuse about their existence, but they were right in front of him, for heaven’s sake. 

“Oh, yeah. Bit of an opening present. Didn’t get the chance to give them to you, last time.”

Aziraphale smiled, feeling rather warm inside. “That was terribly kind of you.”

Crowley glanced at him reproachfully over the top of his sunglasses. “Shush.”

Aziraphale made short work of the wrapping paper. Crowley waved him away when he offered the box. “They’re yours.” 

Aziraphale didn’t argue, and accepted the whisky tumbler when Crowley handed it to him, their fingers brushing. 

“You’ve got the place looking nice,” Crowley observes, settling himself back down. 

“Oh, yes. It’s really coming along. I’ve just got the new Dickens in.”

“Oh, Lucifer save us, not him again.”

Aziraphale clucked his tongue. “So quick to judge. Some of it’s really rather good.”

“Of course you’d say that. You love all that _verbose_ stuff. It’s far too easy to tell the man was being paid by the word, if you ask me.” 

Aziraphale smirked. “I happen to think it’s all rather eloquent. A little dour in parts, I’ll concede, but…” something occurred to him. “Have you even read any Dickens? I thought you weren’t one for reading. Could have sworn you said so yourself, in fact.” 

“What? Yes...yeah, I’ve read Dickens. Loads and loads of it. Didn’t enjoy a single word. Read it just so I could dislike it close up.” 

“I’m sure.” Aziraphale spent some time contemplating his shelf, before selecting a copy of _Martin Chuzzlewit_ and depositing it on Crowley’s lap. “Perhaps you ought to read this one in time for our next meeting. It’s rather good.”

“I’ve read that one.” The response was quick as thought.

“Capital! Then you’ll know your way around it.” 

Crowley grimaced at him. 

Aziraphale stared back guilelessly. “Just as you said, it’s my job to thwart you. You won’t have much time for doing the devil’s dark bidding if you’re occupied by a book, will you? But, of course, if it’s too _difficult_ for you...”

Crowley gave him a filthy look and snatched up the book. Aziraphale flashed him his most angelic smile. 

It was rather cruel of him, he knew. But it was always tremendous fun, baiting him like this. Crowley really would do anything he asked, for the sake of not being shown up. 

Of course, he wouldn’t say he _liked_ Crowley. (Absurd. Unthinkable. Did it really need to be spelled out? Crowley was the enemy, obviously.) He wouldn’t, he couldn’t possibly say a thing like that. 

It was just that -

It was just -

Well. It was pleasant to have some company, from time to time. That was all. And besides, weren’t angels imbued with God’s divine love? And accordingly, was it not appropriate to bestow some of that (heavenly, dutiful, magnanimous) love on the enemy? Was it not so that Crowley had been an angel once, himself? 

And if he occasionally found his gaze lingering a little too long on that roguish smile, that ostentatious saunter, the lovely colour of his hair when it caught the light, those theatrical gesticulations… well. Demons were supposed to be a little seductive, weren’t they? It was simply par for the course. It wasn’t as if Aziraphale was actually giving in to any temptations. And, naturally, Crowley couldn’t possibly desire him in reality. If the occasional remark had a flirtatious edge, this could only be merely the _modus operandi_ for a demon of temptation. 

Aziraphale would neither confirm nor deny that his thoughts had, on occasion, wandered towards the prospect of hands and lips on his skin, a lithe form stretched out below him, sweet conversational nothings murmured in each other’s ears. Indulgences. He had wondered on occasion, before catching himself, what it would feel like to feel that peppery demonic essence up close and personal, assuming it wouldn’t cause him to combust or melt or something equally dreadful. All out of academic curiosity, you understand. He was well-read, and well-versed in humanity’s pleasures of the flesh. Some in theory, some in practice. 

Strictly speaking, nobody had ever _said_ that an angel couldn’t desire someone. It was just sort of assumed by default that they didn’t.

Nobody had ever said that an angel couldn’t desire a demon. They didn’t have to. 

Crowley might tease him, but it didn’t have that same bite that his associates’ remarks did. More to the point, with Crowley, Aziraphale was allowed to tease back. 

And sometimes Crowley would just let him speak. Of course, he was prone to being talkative himself, going off on those funny little tangents, but sometimes, in an instinctive sort of way, he recognised Aziraphale’s need to gush about the latest little restaurant he’d found, or a new first edition he’d just managed to track down. On those occasions Crowley would just let Aziraphale speak for as long as he liked, regarding him with a deep, contemplative expression.

He was doing it now. Sprawled over the sofa, leaning on one elbow, whilst Aziraphale got to talking about his latest rather rum customer who had had the nerve to try and _haggle_ for a first edition _Diary of Margery Kempe_ , and how much he had enjoyed the latest Currer Bell. 

“...And gosh, Crowley, it really is rather lovely, having a space like this. Of course, I knew it would be enjoyable, but having all this, all to myself, it’s… well, it’s _liberating_.”

Crowley nodded, slowly. 

“Of course, it’s terribly messy still. I’m always meaning to get these new stacks arranged, but the time escapes me so easily these days. Of course, the advantage is that they don’t sell so quickly…” he continued in this fashion for a while, sipping his whiskey and allowing the tension from Heaven’s meeting to ease out of him. 

“So, anyway,” Crowley drawled after a while, “I was wondering if you’d like to go out tonight.”

“Where?”

Crowley shrugged. “Take in a show? There’s a magic show on tonight at that little street corner place, might be a bit of fun.”

“Rather _occult_ , isn’t it? That sort of thing?”

“Nah. Not this kind. Just mucking about with cards and birds and things. All above board, none of your medium rubbish.”

Aziraphale hesitated. “We probably shouldn’t. I mean…” he flicked his gaze upwards. 

Crowley looked thoughtful. “ ’Course, there _might_ be some occult stuff there. Couldn’t hurt for you to keep an eye out, see if there was any communing with hellish forces for you to put a stop to.”

“I suppose Heaven couldn’t actually object, then. Not if I was there on the lookout. It’s practically an assignment, really.”

“Exactly. And, you know, I’ll be there. You could always make a performance of driving me out of the establishment… stopping me from putting a ‘fluence on the poor impressionable patrons. If it came to it.” 

Aziraphale worried at his lower lip. The idea really did have considerable appeal, even if he would be looking over his shoulder for a good portion of it. “Dinner, afterwards?”

“Anywhere you want.” 

“Then let’s be off. Foul demon.”

Naturally, as it so happened, there were two seats available next to each other with an optimum vantage point when they arrived. Crowley went off to get them a drink while Aziraphale made himself comfortable, taking in the bustle of his surroundings and breathing in the smell of greasepaint. 

The theatre resonated with love. The performers’ love of the craft, and the audience’s love of the performance. Most of the time, anyway. But even when audience members jeered and laughed and heckled (although they were somewhat less encouraged to do so, somehow, when Aziraphale was among them - particularly if he turned to Crowley with a wide-eyed, imploring look) he could still feel the thready undercurrent of love. It sung to him from the very walls. 

Crowley returned, handing him a brandy and settling himself in the seat beside him, their shoulders brushing a little. 

Aziraphale hadn’t formerly been overly familiar with magic tricks, excepting the odd street show or circus attraction3.

Aziraphale enjoyed this show a great deal. There were cards and birds involved, as promised, including one rather charming manouvre in which the performer tied an audience member’s hair ribbon around a dove’s foot and placed it in a covered cage 

“Sensing any hellish activity?” Crowley muttered _sotto voce_. Aziraphale shushed him as the magician dramatically flung the cloth away to reveal an empty cage and an identical bird sporting the same ribbon burst from the rafters and came to rest on the performer’s crooked finger. 

  


  


oOo

  
  


Later, they sat in a quiet little establishment eating roast pheasant and new potatoes. 

“And when she smashed that gentleman’s pocket watch! I thought the poor fellow would go into conniptions.” 

“He’d have deserved it if she’d smashed it for real. I saw him heckling the drinks vendors at the interval.”

Aziraphale made a face. “Your doing?”

“Nah. I’m not one for the individual corruption these days. Getting lots of people down at a time, that’s where the future lies. Efficiency.”

“And what does that entail, exactly? Although I expect I’ll regret asking.”

“Oh, things like the telegraph towers. One little inconvenience, spread amongst lots of people. And _they’ll_ go and take that frustration out on their workers, or their families, and so many souls get the slightest bit of tarnish. It’s in its early days, but I think it could work, in the long run.”

“Naturally not. We’re destined to prevail in the long term, as I’m sure you’re aware.” Aziraphale speared himself a potato. 

“So your lot keep saying.” Crowley flashed him a rakish grin. 

His mouth really was a beautiful shape. The way it turned down at the corners a little when he smiled like that. It was almost a shame, with the smoked glasses, that Aziraphale couldn’t see it reach his eyes. 

Aziraphale shook his head, dismissing the thought. “They make it look so graceful, don’t they? All trickery, of course, but it’s rather beautiful.” He sighed, looking at the remains of their food. “I suppose we ought to be going.”

Crowley nodded, a little morosely. “Will I see you again?”

“Best to give it some time. A few years, then perhaps it’ll be safe. Better stay on the lookout, though, for any agents.” 

“Of course.”

After a bit of back-and-forth over who was going to pay the bill - which Crowley eventually won, although it was always rather a moot point when one could simply miracle the appropriate amount - they stepped out into the crisp breeze of the evening. 

“We really ought to part ways now,” Aziraphale reminded him, without too much conviction. 

“Can I walk you to your shop, at least?”

Aziraphale conceded that this was something they could risk. 

He couldn’t ask Crowley to stay for longer, to while away the rest of the night talking about the show they’d just seen, and the meal, and many other things besides, however much Aziraphale would have liked to be able to articulate the thoughts going through his head. That would be decidedly too far.

The walk to the bookshop was over far too quickly. 

“I shall learn some card tricks,” Aziraphale announced, apropos of nothing in particular, when they were about to reach the door. 

“Right. ‘Course, you do realise that _actual_ magic is an option for us.” 

“Oh, goodness… sounds a little underhand, though, doesn’t it? No, that would be cheating.”

Crowley made a vague noise of disagreement. “Not really _cheating_ as such, though, is it? ‘S just using the resources at your disposal, that’s all.” 

“It’s no fun if there are no risks, surely.”

“Suit yourself. Well.” Crowley stretched in an excessively nonchalant fashion. “Be seeing you, then.” 

“Thank you for tonight.” On impulse, Aziraphale reached out to take Crowley’s hand, intending to shake it, he supposed, but instead he found himself simply holding on, Crowley squeezing him back, as the seconds drew out and neither of them spoke. 

“Thank you,” he said again. “Goodnight, Crowley.” 

He turned and walked into the shop, trying to shake off the hollow feeling of melancholy that was wont to set in at times like this. 

He could detect it as soon as he walked in. Angelic essence, a sort of sharp airiness that somehow managed to convey a heavy sense of _corporate office_. Aziraphale’s shoulders tensed, although it appeared he was alone. 

On a side table, an envelope lay, sealed in gold, containing a missive detailing his next assignment. _Called today but you were curiously absent._

Aziraphale sighed, and resisted the urge to raise his eyes skyward. 

  


_****_

_**St James’ Park, 1862** _

_  
_

Aziraphale was uneasy. 

Roughly a decade of being left alone, with only the odd perfunctory letter and check-in, but the other week he had run into Gabriel at the park, supposedly doing his daily calisthenics, and been treated to a few rather loaded remarks _vis a vis_ whether or not that demon was defeated yet and reminders to always be vigilant, not associating too closely with these humans. 

_Naturally_ , he wouldn’t say he wasn’t happy to see one of his brethren, but it did tend to put him on edge. 

He really ought not to have met Crowley like this, out in the open where anyone might be looking around for them. But Crowley had requested it, a neutral location, with the usual little pantomime of “just running into each other”. 

“I need a favour.”

“We already have the agreement, Crowley. Stay out of each other’s way, lend a hand when needed.” Aziraphale glanced around in case anyone particularly celestial-looking was overhearing this exchange. 

“I want insurance.”

“What?”

“I wrote it down.” Crowley handed the paper over and carried on muttering about walls and ducks while Aziraphale stared in horror.

“Out of the question.”

“Why not?”

 _Why not?_ “It would destroy you! I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley.”

“That’s not what I want it for. Just insurance.” As if that were any better. Would Crowley really use it on himself if the demons showed up at his door? And he wanted Aziraphale to be the one to _supply_ him with it. How could he ask for that? 

The full implications were too much to confront head-on. Perhaps, then, this was what prompted Aziraphale to refer back to Heaven’s regulations. At least they provided him with a more airtight excuse. 

“I’m not an idiot, Crowley. Do you know what trouble I’d be in, if… if they knew I’d been… fraternising? It’s completely out of the question.”

“ _Fraternising_?” Crowley snarled back. 

“Well, whatever you wish to call it.” Fraternising. Arrangement. Whatever stiffly euphemistic terminology would allow them to stay in each other’s lives with a sheen of plausible deniability. If Crowley wasn’t going to play the game anymore, there was simply no way for their alliance to continue. 

“I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.”

“I have lots of other people to _fraternise_ with, Angel.” 

“Of course you do.”

“I don’t need you.”

“Well, and the feeling is mutual. Obviously.” He turned on his heel, flinging the note into the lake (temporarily wishing that it was made of something weightier than paper for more of an impact; he settled for burning it for good measure) and storming away. 

Back in his shop, he paced furiously. 

So that was that, then. It was over. It was for the best, it really was. 

He wouldn’t hand Crowley the means to destroy himself. If keeping him safe from obliteration meant the end of whatever little alliance they’d been building these past few millenia… well, so be it. Besides, it wasn’t safe. 

The tears wouldn’t stop gathering in his eyes, even so. Initially he made a show of angrily scrubbing them away with his sleeve. Eventually, though, he gave up and let them fall. 

  
  


  1. It was essentially guaranteed in one of these meetings that as soon as things appeared to be wrapping up, one of the other archangels would stand up to say “if I could just raise a few _minor_ points” before talking solidly for half an hour, followed by an extensive amount of pontificating on behalf of the others. In theory, time didn’t pass in the great celestial plane in the same way that it did on Earth. In practice, they were dreadfully good at ensuring you wouldn’t be back in time for dinner.  [ ▲ ]
  2. In point of fact this wasn’t really a smell as such, but this is the closest approximation for a human range of senses. Your average celestial being possessed a rather more extensive repertoire, which could put a mantis shrimp at Glastonbury to shame. [ ▲ ]
  3. It had often been a source of great consternation to a certain class of street performer looking to lighten the pockets of a well-to-do gent that Aziraphale was always unerringly capable of finding the correct card in a three-card-shuffle, even if said card had been strategically palmed over the course of the game. Many a seasoned confidence trickster had packed up their equipment and gone home with a heavy heart after a friendly altercation with the angel. Belief was a powerful thing.  [ ▲ ]




	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Love, Aziraphale thought to himself, was a deeply untrustworthy phenomenon._
> 
> In which Aziraphale does some bad magic tricks in a club and Crowley attempts reconciliation.

_****_

_**A Discreet Gentleman’s Club, Portland Place, 1894** _

  
  


“...And, aha, I think you’ll find I have nothing in this hand, and nothing…”

“You’ve still got the scarf up that sleeve,” Simeon Jones pointed out helpfully. 

“Oh, gosh, yes…” Aziraphale yanked on it, producing - instead of the traditional knotted chain - just a single, rather uninspiring blue scarf. 

His audience tittered good-naturedly. 

Aziraphale would never have expected one of the rather more unusual quirks of the human psyche: people enjoyed watching things done badly. It was very entertaining for his new friends, somehow, to watch him spectacularly duff up every trick he attempted. 

He would never understand it, but he had to concede that he was rather enjoying his new role as an inept entertainer. Usually it was rare that he was even _permitted_ to do anything badly (at least, not without a stern reprimand from above). He suspected the drink helped. 

“Were these your cards?” he asked Jones, trying for an Acme of Control. 

His friend gave him a look that was clearly intended to convey _I think you know they weren’t_ , before bursting into a tipsy fit of giggles. 

“You ought to take your show to the stage, Fell!” Crowed St John Bennett. 

Aziraphale pouted theatrically. “You’re all rotten, and I shall take my business elsewhere if you all keep this up.” 

This prompted a series of drunken protests from his friends. 

It had become a little ritual among them now: some wag would pipe up with “Ask Fell to do his magic tricks!” and he would make a show of rolling his eyes and grousing about their tendency to laugh at how rubbish he was and _they_ would point out that this was what made it fun and eventually he would deign to get up and somebody would procure a pack of cards and whatnot and away he’d go. 

A few months prior, he had received a first edition copy of _Hocus Pocus Junior, the Anatomie of Legerdemain_ in the post, with no return address. His stomach had flipped at that, remembering the last exchange he’d had with Crowley that had at least ended on a somewhat light note. He’d initially planned on keeping the book somewhere out of the way, but eventually he’d caved in and read it cover-to-cover. It hadn’t done much for his skills, but all the theory stuff was fascinating. 

He glanced around now, at his companions for the evening. St John Bennett was sitting on William Cardew’s lap, absent-mindedly playing with his hair. Richard Dalchelie was dreadfully sozzled at this point, and had quite possibly fallen asleep in the cushy armchair he was lounging in. Old Robert Trent - the club’s eldest resident, as far as the other regulars knew - was squinting at Aziraphale’s performance in his usual cantankerous fashion over a brandy. 

Aziraphale was fond of the group, and they’d come to an odd little understanding over time. He occasionally allowed them to converge in his shop, provided that they treated his books with the utmost care. They, in turn, had welcomed him with open arms into their club, and taught him to dance the gavotte over the course of a few weeks. 

It would happen like this, every few hundred years or so. Aziraphale didn’t consider himself much of a social butterfly; most of the time he was content with his own company, his books and - yes, all right - the meetings here and there he’d managed to snatch with Crowley. But every so often he’d carve out a bit of a niche group for himself - people who didn’t want to buy his books, usually - and pass a very enjoyable evening in their company. 

He tried not to think of Crowley, these days. Tried, and failed, a good chunk of the time. It was funny, the little things that could set him off remembering. Like now, the way Bennett absent-mindedly played with Cardew’s hair. It gave him a strangely melancholic, hollow feeling which he tried not to dwell upon. Odd, really, considering they hadn’t been in the habit of doing that sort of thing. 

Sometimes he caught himself wondering what Crowley would make of his hobby. Crowley had enjoyed the odd bad show, provided he could jeer along with the rest of the audience, but Aziraphale suspected that deep in his heart the demon appreciated a well-executed performance. Likely he would have been most dreadfully embarrassed to be seen in Aziraphale’s presence at times like this, he suspected. The thought made him chuckle, despite himself. 

Aziraphale confused his friends, he knew. He’d make the odd remark without catching himself and let some outdated phraseology slip through, causing them to flash him a few sideways looks. He could see them doing silent calculations, trying to work out exactly how old he was. He knew they found it odd, the way he seemed to be awake and available at all hours, despite possessing the demeanour of the kind of old chap who’d be out like a snuffed candle after a cocoa at nine in the evening. He could never entirely conceal the faint celestial aura he carried with him, causing bystanders to narrow their eyes a little on occasion as if hit by a beam of sunlight, or cock their heads to one side as if trying to detect a faint sound; a change in the air pressure. 

One upside, however, was that they didn’t tend to ask questions. Particularly about family. The concept of being estranged from one’s family was a familiar one amongst his companions, and one it was considered gauche to bring up unprompted. This suited Aziraphale very well, and he was met with sympathetic nods and a reassuring dearth of comments when he mentioned not seeing a great deal of his family. His actual situation, of course, was rather more complicated than any of them could have imagined. Naturally, this was the only reason he would _ever_ pretend to be estranged from his Heavenly brethren. 

This particular lie by omission didn’t sit comfortably with him. He felt guilty about it, naturally, but maintaining the fiction also brought him a strange kind of solace, which he didn’t care to think too much about. He chalked it up to relief that he was passing for human so easily. 

He finished his performance with a self-deprecating little bow, to the kind of applause that was heavily aided by strong drink. His friends pressed a glass of brandy into his hands, and after he’d finished it - and another, for luck - he said his goodbyes and began to make his way back to the shop. 

He gave a bit of a start when he saw Crowley sitting, rather disconsolately, on the front step to his shop. 

“Crowley!”

Crowley glanced up at his arrival, tipping his hat with a self-conscious kind of mock-suavity. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Er. Brought your book back.” Crowley sheepishly proffered his copy of _Martin Chuzzlewit_. 

“Oh... ” Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to respond to that. It had gone out of his head, what with one thing and another. 

He found himself awkwardly sitting down beside Crowley, gingerly taking the book out of his hand. “Well. Thank you.”

Crowley nodded briskly, and the two of them lapsed into silence. 

Aziraphale supposed he really ought to bid Crowley farewell and head into the bookshop. He stayed where he was. 

“All right,” Crowley piped up. “So maybe it wasn’t _just_ to bring the book back.” 

Aziraphale inhaled sharply. “Crowley, I thought I made this clear. I am _not_ bringing you any--” 

“I know! I know. Understood. Won’t go asking you again.”

Aziraphale let out a shuddering sigh. 

“Just…” Crowley started up again. “I didn’t like how we left things, that’s all. Wanted to see if there was any salvaging to be done.” 

“Salvaging of _what_ , exactly?” 

“Of…” Crowley waved a hand vaguely. “Whatever this is.” 

“I thought you had hundreds of people to _fraternise_ with,” Aziraphale said primly. 

“Oh, _yeah_. Goes without saying. The old social calendar’s overflowing, barely get a minute to 

myself. Trouble is, though,” Crowley gave him an oddly cautious, askance look, “Trouble _is_ , point of fact, none of those people are you.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard. This was dangerous territory. They didn’t talk like this; not in terms of actually _wanting_ each other’s company, purely for its own sake. 

When he glanced up at Crowley again, the demon’s expression seemed very deliberately impassive behind his smoked glasses. 

“I suppose, “ Aziraphale conceded slowly, “We could...continue our symbiotic relationship. If we were careful, you understand. If we’re discreet about it, we can continue to… assist each other, on occasion.” 

He was aware of how coldly businesslike he sounded and he hated it. It was fully hitting him, at this point, that he really did despise all this silly _coded_ talk. But needs must. 

Crowley nodded, looking resigned. “Right. With you.”

“And… and of course our paths might cross from time to time, socially. Purely coincidental, you understand.”

“Small world, after all.”

“Quite.” He couldn’t stop himself, suddenly, from sighing in frustration. “Oh, Crowley… you know it’s not up to me, really. If things were different…” 

“Yeah. Understood. Don’t worry.”

“And no holy water. I _can’t,_ Crowley.”

“I’ll never ask you for it again, promise.”

“And you won’t seek it out for yourself?”

Crowley looked at him. “Can’t promise that, angel.” 

Aziraphale flashed him a pained look. 

“It’s insurance, like I said. I wouldn’t use it on myself. Wouldn’t even touch it, not directly. I’m not stupid, you know.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I don’t want to argue anymore. I just wish we could be safe.”

“I know, I know. So do I.”

They lapsed into silence. 

“Did you read it, then?”

“Read what?”

“ _Martin Chuzzlewit_.”

“Oh, yeah. It was terrible.” 

Aziraphale allowed himself to smirk a little. “Oh, dear. That bad?”

“Worse. Far too wordy. I mean, fair play, some of the stuff the characters got up to was borderline demonic, I’ll give them that. The whole business with pocketing tuition fees. That poor sod Tom Pinch though, hanging around being pointlessly in love with some woman? Bit of a duff ending, there.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows ticked up. “You really did read it.”

“‘Course. We had a bet, didn’t we? Well, not a _bet_ as such, but…”

“I should say, I also found the time to read _The Anatomie of Legerdemain_. So that’s fair, really isn’t it? That was your intention, I assume.” 

“Yeah, well. Seemed your sort of thing. Found it in some dusty old secondhand place, the man practically forced me to buy it.” 

“I’m sure.” 

“He _did_. I picked it off the shelf to look at it for all of thirty seconds, and this little proprietor pops up, starts wittering on at me about how it’s a bona fide first edition, don’t see that sort of thing every day, ohoho, no sir. Banging on about pretty tricks with balls. Dodgy business, I call it.”

“Must you be so vulgar?” Aziraphale was struggling not to laugh. 

Crowley stood up, at that, dusting himself off. “I’ll be on my way, then, now we’re all square.”

Aziraphale looked at the ground. “That would be best. But… well. You’re welcome to come back, only not too soon. You understand how it is.”

“Yeah.” Crowley made to leave, before turning back one last time. “Look, I _do_ know. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t prefer it if things were different, but… yeah. I know.”

Aziraphale nodded, feeling more conflicted than ever. 

_****_

_**A.Z. Fell and Co., Soho, 1941** _

  
  


Aziraphale had lived the last few decades surprisingly unbothered when one evening, just as he was planning to head out, he witnessed the ostentatious blast of light and faint smell of ozone that indicated he had a visitor. 

“Gabriel?”

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel slapped him on the back, rather hard. “Haven’t been in here since… what, the 1850’s? Not changed much, has it? You haven’t thought of modernising?” 

“I find it meets my needs,” said Aziraphale primly. “And there’s a great deal of new content. Er. Are you here for any particular…”

“Just checking up on a valued employee!” Gabriel possessed that particular ability some bosses have of giving the phrase “valued employee” an inflection more suited to “garden pest.” It took real practice to work in that sarcastic little lilt. “How about this war then, eh?”

“Yes. Dreadful business. Actually, I was intending to-” 

“Huh? Oh, yeah… yeah. Definitely terrible. Mind you, that’s what you get for giving them free will, right? We’ll be doing them a favour, really, once Armageddon hits.”

Aziraphale felt a chill run down his spine. “I’m not sure that’s--”

“Hope you weren’t thinking of getting involved! I know how you can get attached.” 

Aziraphale smiled stiffly. Gabriel regarded him, pulling a face at his hesitation. 

“Can’t be seen going over quota again, right? The important thing is not to get _too_ involved. Nothing that goes outside your official jurisdiction, you see?”

Aziraphale thought of his hold-all full of prophecy books, gathered in the back room and ready to go. “Quite.” 

“Attaboy.” Gabriel regarded him thoughtfully. “You know, they’re coming up with some really amazing weight-loss plans now. Innovative stuff.”

_They call that “rationing”,_ Aziraphale wanted to snap back, but had the self-preservation not to. 

“Well, think on it.” Gabriel turned to leave, taking one last glance around at the mess on the shelves and making a noise under his breath that might have been a faint chuckle, but was more likely a scoff. 

After he’d left, Aziraphale sat down for a few minutes, composing himself and waiting to ensure safety, before gathering up his hold-all and heading for the church. 

He’d thought he could do his bit for the allies, arranging that ruse with the Nazis. There was that, and, tasteless as it may be to admit it, it was all rather fun. Playing the double agent, just like in those spy novels Crowley had occasionally grudgingly admitted to enjoying. It was rather rare that he had the opportunity to _get one over_ on someone, as the expression went. Really, overall, it was terribly disappointing that it didn’t work out that way. 

In retrospect, perhaps he ought to have expected Crowley to turn up when things went wrong. He was, after all, in the habit of it. He never would have expected Crowley to casually hand his books over just as he’d thought they were gone forever, though. 

He stared at Crowley as he walked away. 

Aziraphale experienced a sudden and thoroughly uncharacteristic fantasy of dropping the books where he stood (just _dropping_ them on the ground, he acknowledged with a mild frisson of horror) and racing after Crowley to take him in his arms, like a scene from one of those cinematographic shows that were becoming so popular. 

He wouldn’t -

He wouldn’t say that - 

He _couldn’t_ say that -

He couldn’t. 

He did, however, let Crowley take him home, and all things considered, it seemed like bad form not to invite him in for a drink, and when they had both calmed their nerves a little it was almost like old times again. 

Over the course of the evening it transpired that Crowley had been doing a fair amount of undercover work with British counter-intelligence - “But for Satan’s sake, don’t let head office find out.” 

“Yes. Not dreadfully demonic of you, is it?”

Crowley was quiet for a time, seemingly marshalling his thoughts. 

“You know,” he said after a while. “Them. Humans.” 

“Yes?”

“The kind of stuff they’re capable of, it would put the most dedicated demon to shame. Sometimes makes you wonder why you bother doing your job, when there they are, right, running around doing it for you, with more imagination than any of my lot could ever have come up with. Y’r average demon’s a plodder, at the end of the day, angel. A worker drone, still using the same old material over and over and over and over and over and over again. You want proper nastiness, look to the humans. _They’re_ the innovators.”

Aziraphale nodded glumly. 

“And you know what-” Crowley picked up an empty wine bottle, waving it around a bit to be certain there was nothing left in it - “You know what, sometimes you think we all ought to just leave them to their own devices, you know, let them dig their own grave, but then…” he hesitated for a moment, belched, and continued: “Then you think, whose grave’re you leaving them to dig, really? Because it won’t be the ones at the top. They’ll be the ones living it up, trampling the others under their boots, and there you would be, just handing it all to them, and acting like it makes you some neutral party… like it’s _noble_ , somehow.” Crowley took a long drink of wine from the half-full bottle he’d managed to recover. 

“...And where’s…. Wheresa fun in that, really?” Crowley yelped, throwing his arms wide. “Getting some… some rich bugger all worked up because some servant had enough of him and up and left with the silverware is fun. _Proper_ good fun, that. Making some poor sod’s life even worse for them when they’ve got enough on their plate already isn’t as fun. Stealing some wealthy toff’s purse is fun, when you know it won’t make a dent in his riches, end of the day. It’s not much fun stealing from people who din’t have nothing to begin with.”

“You shouldn’t steal at all.”

“Not the same thing, though, is it?”

Aziraphale tried to mull this over through the wine-induced mental fog. He became aware that Crowley was awaiting some sort of response. 

“But they… the ones at the top, as you put it… they will go to their eternal punishment, in the end.” 

“Sure, _eventually_ , I’ll grant you. But when some other poor bastards are being tested to destruction and yeah, eventually, right, _eventually_ they’ll get their reward, but is it fair to get everything chucked at them for that? When some people are decent sorts but have a pretty cushy life, at the end of the day, they get that same reward too. Everyone’s all ‘ooh, it’s a perfect system’, but is it, really?”

“Hang on, but _you_ test them. What about all that business with the postal service?”

Crowley shrugged, and took a while mulling this over. “‘S the job, isn’t it,” he eventually said, rather weakly. 

They both lapsed into silence. 

“Anyway, what about you?” Crowley pressed. “That whole business with the book deal, trying to swindle the Nazis. Assignment, was it?”

“Perhaps not, but it is appropriate for a Heavenly agent.” 

“That’s the only reason, is it?”

Aziraphale swallowed. 

“How are your feet?” He said briskly, instead of pursuing the matter further. 

“Oh, fine, now.” Crowley blearily took a look at his feet. “Doesn’t even hurt that much. It’s more _grating_ than anything. I’d do it again if I needed to, s’what I’m saying.”

“Thank you. For taking care of all that.”

It didn’t feel like enough. 

Of course, this wasn’t the first time Crowley had done him a favour. Or even saved his life, for that matter. 

But he couldn’t help replaying that scene in his head. That cavalier way that Crowley had handed over the bag of books. That he’d even _thought_ of it, in the midst of it all, before it had even occurred to Aziraphale himself. That flood of feelings he couldn’t confront washing over him as he watched Crowley walk away. 

He couldn’t dwell on it. What was one supposed to _do_ with information like that? 

“Head office wouldn’t have much liked it, if I’d had to sort things out myself.”

Crowley gave him a drunkenly studious look. “You know, Angel, not many people would consider saving yourself from discorporation a _frivolous_ miracle.” 

“Well. You know. Individual benefit… Usually miracles are supposed to be a sort of… _greater good_ thing. And of course, there’s the paperwork.” 

“Just the paperwork, then? Not so worried about damage to the old corporeal form?”

Aziraphale considered this for a moment. 

Of course, it _was_ a factor. He was fond of his body - the ways he’d made it his own over the centuries, got himself comfortable. (Within the bounds of Heavenly regulations, admittedly. There was a degree of requirement for keeping things uniform.) He wouldn’t enjoy having to file for a new one, overmuch, especially considering he might have to get used to a new form. But, after all, this form was just a particularly elaborate form of attire. Wouldn’t do to get over-attached. 

“Well. I suppose. Head office would give me a dreadful telling-off. But I’d just have to get issued a new one, after all.”

Crowley made a skeptical little noise but didn’t push it. “Treating you all right, though, are they? The higher-ups?”

Perhaps it was the drink that stopped him. Usually he’d come out with some prim response about how, yes, of course, carrying out God’s great plan with his holy brethren was going just swimmingly, thank you so much. 

“They don’t like me,” he admitted instead, very quietly. 

Crowley made a face. “Heaven has no taste, I’ve always said it.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale smiled. “I really ought to take you to task for that, but in the circumstances…”

Crowley clicked his tongue thoughtfully, and switched to a wheedling tone. “There’s no way you could… I don’t know...distance yourself from them a bit?”

“Distance myself? You don’t mean _fall_?”

“No! No, nothing like that. Wouldn’t want that for you. I just mean… I dunno. We could work out a plan. Form our own side. We’re already working together… or, or just _your_ side, if you like. Could be your own angel. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d always want you around, but… could all be up to you. Got the shop and everything now, maybe they wouldn’t notice if you weren’t working for them any more… could just help humans out in a quieter sort of way... don’t know.” Crowley sounded a little pained. “I don’t know.” 

It came out rambling, a little disjointed, but Aziraphale was getting the impression that this little speech had been planned in advance. He made a face, trying to think through the fog of alcohol. “But that would never work. They would just come looking for me, or summon me back up to Heaven… And there’s the plan… the great plan...” Crowley’s words were beginning to sink in a little. “And it’s cruel of you, Crowley, saying these things. It couldn’t happen. I can’t abandon my post any more than you can.“ 

Crowley cocked his head on one side, looking as if he was about to argue, but then faltered. “All right, Angel. Ok. Never mind.”

Aziraphale had to look away for a second, willing himself not to well up with tears. 

It _was_ cruel. Having the suggestion presented to him like that. It made him visualise things all too clearly. No more tedious meetings, no more snide remarks. Just a whole eternity to tend his bookshop, with Crowley in tow. And he couldn’t have it. He’d never be able to. 

He didn’t want to think about it all any more. He wanted to shift over and lean his head on Crowley’s shoulder. Let Crowley hold him, tightly, until all these thoughts were driven out of his head in favour of the warmth and the pressure. Let his wings out and have Crowley comb his fingers through them. Close the distance between them. (Oh, hell. Or perhaps heaven. Not much point denying it, at this point. In his head, at least.)

Instead, he refilled Crowley’s glass for him, a little unsteadily, with the last of the wine, by way of a truce, and the matter was dropped. 

When he woke he could only remember the events in rather hazy detail. Crowley was gone. 

  
  


_****_

_**Soho, 1960s** _

  
  


Love, Aziraphale thought to himself, was a deeply untrustworthy phenomenon. 

That was to say, not the kind of love he was used to. Not that generic _, heavenly affection towards all of God’s creatures_ business that angels were naturally imbued with. Supposedly, at least. As much as he told himself, over and over again, that what he was feeling towards Crowley was simply a particularly generous manifestation of said Standard Angelic Love, he knew on a deep fundamental level that it wasn’t the case. And whether he’d intended to or not, he’d had a lot of time to acclimatise to his feelings.

This didn’t feel practical. This felt like some rich dessert, or a glass of champagne; heady and indulgent. It felt messy; ungoverned by the usual rules. And deeply, profoundly personal. Feeling love like this - selective, untidy, with no divine purpose but existing purely for its own sake, so very _human_ \- presumably marked him a Bad Angel in and of itself. But for a _demon_ , it barely even bore thinking about. 

It was ‘love thy neighbour’, so to speak, not ‘love the shape of thy neighbour’s mouth when he laughs about his latest petty misdeed.’ Not ‘thrill at the sound of thy neighbour’s voice when he surprises you with a visit.’ Certainly not ‘speculate at length on the taste of thy neighbour’s lips and what thy neighbour would look like stretched on a bed beneath you.’

But why couldn’t they be like humans? Both, after all, were made in the Almighty’s image. And for all that other angels tended to be so dismissive of humans, they were supposed to protect them. Set them on the right path. Love them, even. 

These thoughts continued to go through his head as he headed apprehensively towards the Bentley, that particular evening in Soho.

He’d heard through word of mouth about this odd little caper that Crowley had planned, and his heart had sunk, but he’d made up his mind after that. If Crowley was going to insist on getting his hands on some holy water, it was better that Aziraphale procured it himself. 

Perhaps seeing Aziraphale, having him be the one to hand it over, would be enough to persuade Crowley not to be reckless with it. Perhaps it would keep him just a little safer. And it would save him the trouble of this silly little _heist_ business. 

He still felt queasy when he handed the flask over. 

“After everything you said,” Crowley said quietly. Aziraphale’s heart turned over at the tone. 

He’d wondered, sometimes, whether demons were capable of exuding love.

Love was a complicated thing to sense at the best of times. So many varieties, in terms of general _essence_ , so many different smells and tastes and sounds and textures, so to speak, all converging into one universal concept. The fresh, budding affection of a newly-in-love couple would mingle together with some hungry bystander’s sudden wave of overwhelming appreciation for lamb kebabs. 

What would it feel like, coming from a demon? He didn’t know. Naturally, he didn’t have a great deal to go on; not being in the general habit of communing with demons, plural. He honestly had no idea. And from Crowley… well. He wasn’t sure to what extent he could extricate something like love from Crowley’s general… Crowliness. 

It was a rather troubling, unfamiliar experience. 

And without that sensory confirmation to guide him, he couldn’t be sure, not entirely. He felt as if he were stumbling in the dark, nothing to gain a purchase on. But the way Crowley spoke to him, inventing these little loopholes to allow them to spend time together, the looks Crowley flashed at him and the way Crowley had handed his books over, surely that had to account for something. He’d read books; he knew what romantic love looked like, at least in human terms. Perhaps they both really were going native. 

He knew what could happen between them. Or, to put it another way, what couldn’t. 

And he really should disabuse Crowley of the notion, too. They should keep their distance. Perhaps let a little time go by, to let go of the possibility of some romantic congress between them. Readjust expectations. 

“Can I drop you anywhere?” Crowley asked him. 

Just for a second, he let himself experience it. All of it. Perhaps it would work like a pressure valve, letting a little bit out at the odd interval before it all had to be shut up tight again. For a brief moment, he let himself love Crowley and entertain the idea that Crowley loved him back. Let himself be flooded with it, and the sudden surge of rock-hard certainty was impossible to ignore. 

He internally composed himself, slammed the imaginary heavy lid back down, and firmly turned the key. 

“Don’t look so disappointed,” he wheedled. “Maybe someday we could… go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.”

(Because he didn’t want to let go of it all just yet. Just let him believe for a little longer that the future would be different; that there would be possibilities for them there.) 

Crowley looked dissatisfied. “Look, I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.” 

Why did he have to keep doing this? Why couldn’t he just be content with the fantasy of “maybe someday”? Why did he have to make Aziraphale _want_ all the time? 

It was too cruel. Both having the offer presented to him when he so desperately wanted to take it, and what he had to say next. 

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

He left, drawing his coat tightly around him as he walked along the chilly Soho streets, feeling bereft. 

He did his best to convince himself that he hadn’t made a terrible mistake. 

Or, rather, two terrible mistakes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I'm always thrilled to get comments, so don't hesitate!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Long time no post. 
> 
> I'm hoping to update this one on a weekly basis, fortnightly at the latest. 
> 
> I'm Captainclickycat on Tumblr if anyone fancies saying hello
> 
> Always love getting comments, leave one if you’re so inclined!


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